Spelled Out In Lights
by wellgoshsh
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his formative teenage years and the entirety of his adult life solving puzzles and finding connections. And yet...


Author's Notes: A HUGE thank you to my most fabulous beta arcsupport over at livejournal, seriously though you deserve all the holiday cookies and hugs you want for the obscene amount of editing you had to do as well as for the title. This is my sherlockmas fic exchange gift for ellie_hell.

Sherlock Holmes is not a man who is easily surprised. How could he be? He sees every little detail; every minute, seemingly insignificant deviation in a person's regular behavior. He can spot a killer by how assiduously he cleans the kitchen floors, determine military status from a person's stance, and even locate an airline pilot in a crowd simply by looking at his thumb. Needless to say, Sherlock Holmes is a bloody intelligent, brain-the-size-of-a-building genius. So, for Sherlock to be standing in the doorway to his flat, mouth agape, shocked, is nothing short of a miracle.

He had only ever been well and truly shocked a small handful of times in his life (Mrs. Hudson once, Lestrade twice; Mycroft doesn't count), and yet here he was; the world's only consulting detective and foremost expert on deductive reasoning, standing in the hallway staring at the thing on the mantel like a commonplace idiot. _The thing_, of course, being the skull, which Sherlock liked to refer to as Jeremy Downey Rathbone. It was perhaps not the most common of names, but with a name like Sherlock Benedict Sherrinford Holmes, Sherlock takes solace in the fact that he is not the only one with an odd mishmash of vowels, consonants and syllables.

It was not, however, the skull itself that caught Sherlock's attention, but instead the red and white fuzzy lump placed atop its head.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John answered as he stuck his head out from the kitchen doorway.

"What is that?" Following his flatmate's stare, John glanced over at the mantel and grinned.

"What? Don't you know?" John smirked, fully enjoying the look of irritated confusion on Sherlock's face. It wasn't a look John saw often, so he would take full advantage of it while it lasted, thank you very much.

Sherlock gave John one of his iconic _don't-be-an-idiot_ glares. "Yes, of course I know what it is; that much is obvious. What I want to know is why it is on Jeremy… I mean, the skull." _Brilliant_, Sherlock thought; _now that that's slipped out, John will never let me live that one down. _

"Jeremy, hmm?" John shrugged nonchalantly "Go figure; he looks like a Basil to me." _Of course! Of _course_ John would name a skull. He seems so ordinary, so banal; he constantly gets caught up in all the little meaningless day-to-day aspects to life, and yet he is so extraordinary. A living, breathing puzzle. John should, by all means be boring, but he isn't. There is something about him; he is somehow just slightly different enough to set him apart from the rest of the mindless idiots..._

"It's a Santa hat. It's supposed to be festive," John said, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts.

"Festive?" Sherlock didn't do festive; he never really enjoyed the holidays. There were too many annoyingly cheerful people, and it was nearly impossible to go anywhere in public without hearing some version of that same five god-awful holiday songs about peace on earth or the true spirit of Christmas. And don't even get Sherlock started on the subject of Christmas dinner. Sherlock didn't do garland or ribbons or presents, and he certainly did not do Santa hats.

John rolled his eyes and sighed. He had a hunch that Sherlock might be against decorating. "Yes, Sherlock, festive. You know, 'tis the season, joy to the world, peace on earth and good will towards men. I thought it would be nice to decorate the flat a bit, you know, for the holidays."

Sherlock huffed, walking past John, somehow managing to throw himself on the couch as gracefully as always, his coat swishing from the movement. "Yes, well, you can _decorate,_" Sherlock practically sneered the word, "as much as you like. Just make sure that none of my experiments are interrupted because of it."

"Actually, I was rather hoping you'd like to help." John gave Sherlock a small hopeful smile. _Damn_. Sherlock had very recently found that smile increasingly hard to ignore, or for that matter deny. "Oh, come on, don't give me that look. It will be fun. Mrs. Hudson has an extra tree; she was going to bring it up along with a box of lights. She made biscuits too, but you only get some if you help."

Sherlock turned his head away from the ceiling and towards his flatmate, frowning slightly "What kind?"

"Gingerbread, I think." At that, Sherlock turned his head back, and gave the ceiling his full attention.

"Hmm." Sherlock hummed, bringing his hands up in his prayer-like thinking position under his chin.

"I'll even make you your favorite tea to dunk the biscuits in; I know how much you like to do that. What do 'ya say?"

Sherlock could feel the edge of his mouth curl upwards, but he fought back the smile. John always knew what to say. Trying to sound petulant, and not entirely succeeding, Sherlock replied with a curt, "Fine."

o0o

Once said biscuits were consumed, and the tree, heavy as that thing was, managed to make its way up to 221b, the "festivities" began. Well… _festive_ might not be the best choice of words considering a majority of the time was spent with an irritated ex-army doctor wrestling a tree, trying to get it to stay upright, and a lazy consulting detective watching, amused, while spread out on the sofa. Sherlock might have been enjoying himself, but John sure as hell wasn't. After coming out of his latest battle with the demon tree from Hell (which John was now convinced was some sort of piney anti-Christ) with war wounds, John turned around and looked pleadingly over at his flatmate. Sherlock merely quirked an eyebrow, as if to ask "Really, John?", and continued on doing what Sherlocks do best; which was, apparently, staring. With a roll of the eyes and a huff John turned back, filled with a steadfast determination to conquer this tree or die trying. Because, so help him God, if this sodding, God-damn-it-all, bloody tree didn't get its shit together and do what it was… oh.

John whipped his head around to see Sherlock looming over him, his perfect cupid-bow lips hovering just above John's forehead, adjusting the tree to stand upright properly.

"I could practically hear you thinking expletives," Sherlock drawled, as if that was a perfect explanation for why he finally decided to participate. John flashed him one of his cheeky smiles.

"Lights?"

"Hmmm, yes."

The next hour consisted of Sherlock creating convoluted patterns with the lights; twisting them together with a flick of the wrist to form circles and doubling back over sections. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, with a look of utter concentration on his face, John suddenly got a glimpse of what a young Sherlock might have looked like; he had to admit, the man looked adorably endearing. John could imagine a Sherlock, no older than four or five, sitting just like he was now, pursing his lips and scrunching up his nose while he concentrated on solving a jigsaw puzzle.

It was only once the lights were hung on the tree and below the mantel that John understood what his insane genius of a flatmate was doing.

"Okay… I get what the first one is, but I don't know the others."

"You understand what these are?" Sherlock popped his head up from his work, and looked up at John with confused curiosity.

"'Course I do. I went to medical school. I had to take bio-chem classes, you know. That one there is the molecular structure of caffeine." John pointed over to the light structure dangling just below the mantel piece.

"Yes, but how? How could you possibly know that?" John sighed; he wasn't quite the idiot Sherlock made him out to be.

"You do know that to become a doctor, one must be a medical student first? Whenever we were sleep-deprived and studied out, we would look up the molecular structure of random things." John paused and gave Sherlock a mischievous grin, making him look years younger. "And of course, knowing them became the perfect drinking game when everyone was completely sloshed."

"Oh, that must have been a sight to see; drunken medical students defiling chemical structures for fun."

John burst out laughing. God, Sherlock loved that laugh almost as much as John's inappropriate crime scene giggling.

"Yeah, I'm sure it was a sight you wouldn't soon forget. I got pretty good at it too. Use to know loads of 'em. Caffeine is the only one I remember now, though." Sherlock chuckled. Just when he thought he had John figured out, he went and said something surprising.

Sherlock pointed to a cluster of lights, directing John's attention to the middle of the tree. "That one is the molecular structure of paracetamol. The one below it is arsenic." He took John through each one: ammonia, methane, nitric and acetic acids. The tour ended with the largest of the structures, which was hanging on the wall.

"That's fantastic! Which one is this?" John queried.

"That would be nicotine, obviously."

"Yes, obviously."

"John, since we're on the subject, get me a nicotine patch"

"And why can't you get one yourself?"

Sherlock plopped down onto the couch, stretching out his long limbs as far as the furniture would allow. "I am rather tired; it must be caused by being 'festive'."

John sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Lazy git."

"And while you are up, order some takeaway, will you. I'm starving. Choose wherever you like; I'm indifferent."

"Fine, Indian it is. Will you be requiring anything else, your majesty?"

"Just tea for me, thanks."

"Always happy to serve." John's tone practically dripped with sarcasm. Sherlock snorted, spreading out on the couch and flipping on the telly.

With the tea made, the nicotine patch delivered, the Indian restaurant called, and the empty boxes of decorations piled in the corner, John strode out of the kitchen and into the living room to join Sherlock. "Oi! Shove over."

Sherlock moved his head just enough for John to sit down, then promptly laid his head back down on John's lap. "Sherlock…"

"Shhh, John, you're comfortable. Watch the show." It was easy enough to get caught up watching telly. It was some murder-mystery cop show that required actual focus, which was unusually easy to do with Sherlock quiet. Usually by now Sherlock would have figured out who the killer was and demanded to watch something that wasn't a 'complete waste of precious brain cells.'

It wasn't until Sherlock made a contented humming noise that John realized that his hand had somehow made its way up to his flatmate's hair, his fingers gently carding through the soft curls. No wonder it was so quiet. Sherlock didn't even have his eyes open. He wasn't watching the show at all, but was instead leaning into John's touch, completely unaware of what was happening on the telly.

John thought he should be more uncomfortable with this. He should be protesting; telling Sherlock to move off of him, but honestly, John didn't want him to move. He was quite content, sitting there with Sherlock's dark mass of curls underneath his fingertips. It didn't seem weird, John reasoned, because of how close they had gotten, and how much their friendship had grown in the past few months, especially after the pool incident. Sherlock was his best friend, the most important person in his life; it seemed only natural that they would grow physically closer as well as emotionally.

Plus, Sherlock had said that he was tired, which was a miracle in and of itself, and John had to admit that the flat looked great. Sherlock really did do a magnificent job of decorating, even though he was against the idea from the beginning. Really, the decorations were wonderfu... wait.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tilted his head back, his face positioned as if looking at John's face. However, Sherlock's eyes remained closed. "Yes, John?"

"Where did the Santa hat on the skull go?"

Sherlock flashed John an arrogant smirk of a smile and turned his head back towards the TV. "Haven't a clue."

o0o

The month flew by; December became a blur of cases, holiday parties, chasing after criminals, and (much more dangerous) Christmas shopping. And yet, amidst all the chaos and crime-solving, one thing remained a near constant: the hat. Ever since that first night, when Sherlock hid the skull's idiotic Santa hat (under the couch), hiding and retrieving the hat became somewhat of a pastime for Sherlock and John. Sherlock would distract John long enough to hid it (in his violin case, behind the telly, in the freezer, Mrs. Hudson's flat- you name it and it has most likely had a Santa hat hidden on, in, under, or behind it), and John would always find it, no matter how obscure the hiding place, and place it back on the skull's head, waiting for the next round to begin.

With the swarm of cases and required holiday merriment, the two Baker Street boys were exhausted. Well, mainly John, but recently, much to Sherlock's chagrin, Sherlock had started to sleep more. And for that fact, eat more too. _It's about bloody time_, John thought_, the man's body is just as precious as that mind of his; it's about time he realizes it. _Sherlock had noticed the change in his regular behavior too, and to be honest, it scared him a bit. Sherlock had promised John to eat and sleep more often after a brutal string of cases left him extremely weak and on the verge of collapse. But Sherlock obeyed for more than his body's sake. It was for John. Sherlock liked making John happy, and if that meant taking a quick nap or swallowing whatever spoonful John gave him, then he'd do it. He couldn't stand the look of worry or disappointment on John's face, he just couldn't.

That's what scared Sherlock the most; he had never cared about what others felt or expected of him. Emotional attachments, expectations, worry- they all got in the way. Yet, here he was, Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath, shoving fattening food down his throat and wasting valuable time sleeping, all for a certain ex-army doctor. It worried him because it wasn't logical or particularly useful to keep his promise to John, but he still wanted to do it; he would do anything to see that breathtaking smile on John's face or hear his heart-warming laugh. However, that didn't mean Sherlock was happy with John's next request at all.

"John, don't make me," Sherlock moaned, scrubbing his hand through his hair. "I will get rid of the brain in the fridge, just please don't make me go."

"You'll be getting rid of the brain whether or not you go. We've talked about this, Sherlock. It will only be three days, plus you won't have to leave until the night before."

"If I have to go, can't you at least come with me, John?"

A weary smile passed over John's lips. "You know that I can't, Sherlock. I promised Harry that I would spend Christmas with her. Like I said, it will only be three days. I'll leave early on the 23rd and get back on Christmas night. All you have to do is _not_ set the flat on fire or kill Mycroft in that time, and everything will be fine."

Sherlock's sigh seemed to echo in John's scarcely furnished room. "And again, why can't I come with you to Harry's?" John walked over to his dresser to get a few pairs of socks before answering. Christ, Sherlock really could be such a petulant five-year-old sometimes. And the worst part about when he acted like a little kid is that it made John see Sherlock as endearing; annoying, but endearing nevertheless.

"Because Mycroft would have both our heads if you didn't go to Christmas dinner, and you know that." Striding back over to his bed, John went to pack his socks, only to find is overnight bag surprising empty of all previously packed contents. Risking a glace up at Sherlock, John saw a mischievous, smug expression overtake Sherlock's face. "Sherlock, give me back my clothes. I need to pack."

"No! If you can't pack, then you will not be able to leave me."

"Leave you? Sherlock, what is this about? It's more than avoiding spending time with Mycroft. What is it?" Sherlock simply shook his head and stepped closer to John, placing his hands on the other man's hips.

Worry crowded John's features. "What's wrong? Sherlock, please tell me what's wrong." His left hand came up to smooth over the creamy pale skin of his friend's neck. "Sherlock, you're scaring me. What is it?" John's other hand cupped Sherlock's face, thumb drawing circles on those impossibly sharp cheekbones.

Groaning, Sherlock pressed their foreheads together. "What if something happens?" he whispered, "He has already taken you away from me once, John. I will not let that happen again."

John didn't need to ask who Sherlock was referring to. Moriarty. Ever since what happened at the pool, Sherlock has crowded John, making sure he always knew where John was. He even started going on errands with him just to make sure that the other man was safe.

"Sherlock… Sherlock, I'm fine. You're fine. Everything is okay. Nothing is going to happen to me. I'll be safe." John pulled back just enough to see his best friend's face, giving him a reassuring smile. "You can text me whenever and as many times as you like, and I'll respond as soon as I can. I promise, Sherlock."

Sherlock could feel the tension slipping away from him as he melted into John's touch and comforting voice. "All right, John."

"All right, Sherlock. Now either leave the room or go sit on your hands in the corner so I can get my packing done." The taller man snorted, disentangled himself from his flatmate and went to sit, on his hands, in the middle of the room.

John turned back around to finish preparing for his trip to Harry's. On his bed were the clothes that Sherlock had swiped, and the only things left in the bag were three pairs of socks. And the Santa hat.

o0o

Was the train to your satisfaction?

-SH

No, I was surrounded by screaming children the entire time. Afghanistan seemed peaceful in comparison.

-JW

A war zone full of IEDs and Taliban shooting at you is more peaceful than screaming children?

-SH

Yes, yes it is.

-JW

That seems doubtful.

-SH

Yes, well you weren't next to obscenely loud children for hours now were you?

-JW

No I was not, however your comparison of an active war zone to shrill children seems wildly inaccurate.

-SH

Just pointing out the obvious, which I have found is necessary in order for the idiot masses to follow along.

-SH

Not that you are an idiot.

-SH

Well, you do have your moments when you are "spectacularly ignorant" to use your words.

-SH

John?

-SH

John!

-SH

John. John. John.

-SH

JOHN!

-SH

An average of 382 kidnapping take place on trains per year in the UK.

-SH

Christ, Sherlock, I'm okay. I just arrived at Harry's house.

-JW

Wait, how do you even know that?

-JW

And how is Harry? Does she like her new cat?

-SH

It was for a case.

-SH

A case, of course. Shouldn't you have deleted that by now?

-JW

How did you know about the cat… oh never mind, I don't want to know.

-JW

It might be useful for future cases.

-SH

I bet you have a file folder in your brain to keep track of things, don't you? No that's too simple, I bet it's a complicated mapping flowchart brainstorming web type thing.

-JW

Horrendously inaccurate.

-SH

You're sulking now, aren't you? I can practically see that frown of yours.

-JW

There are multiple errors in those two sentences alone. First off, as we are communicating via text, there is no possible way for you to see my facial expression; there is nothing "practical" about it.

-SH

And I do not sulk.

-SH

Yes you do.

-JW

I resent that. You might just come home to another head in the fridge.

-SH

I miss you.

-JW

Even after I threatened to stock our fridge with a severed human head?

-SH

Yes, even then.

-JW

I miss you as well.

-SH

o0o

I'm bored.

-JW

Isn't that my line?

-SH

Yes, well I'm borrowing it. I'm bored. I hate dinner parties, they are pointless and no one is talking about cases and there are no violins or experiments or criminals to chase. I miss you, and London and crime scenes.

-JW

You have already informed me that you missed my presence.

-SH

Yes and I'm saying it again. I miss you.

-JW

Is it customary to say that more than once? Doesn't it get repetitive?

-SH

It is customary and I'll stop if it bothers you, I know that you hate when people repeat themselves.

-JW

Normally, yes I do loathe repetition however in this case it seems not to irritate me; it has the opposite effect, in fact.

-SH

Is that Sherlockian for you like hearing me tell you how lonely my life is without you?

-JW

I would not use those terms but I suppose that is an accurate definition.

-SH

o0o

Hey Sherlock?

-JW

Yes John?

-SH

Have you ever thought of what it would be like to be in a relationship together?

-JW

John, we are currently in a relationship with one another. You are my flatmate, friend and colleague, all of which are relationship statuses.

-SH

I mean a proper relationship.

-JW

And by proper I assume you mean sexual? Really John, do articulate what you mean to say.

-SH

Romantic and sexual.

-JW

I cannot imagine that a romantic relationship would be all that much different from what we have now. You are my best and only friend and the paramount person in my life. The only aspect that is missing is the sexual side.

-SH

Why? What brought this on?

-SH

Have you thought of us in that way?

-SH

It's just that everyone thinks we are together. Mrs. Hudson did, as well as Angelo and I'm almost positive that there is a betting pool down at the Yard about when we will go public. And Harry keeps insinuating, and even random people at dinner have said the same thing, and then there's Sarah.

-JW

Sarah? What does she have to do with us?

-SH

I thought you'd have guessed by now.

-JW

I do not guess, I observe and deduce.

-SH

Then deduce.

-JW

John…

-SH

Okay, fine. She broke it off because she said she knew something was going on between us and that it was pretty obvious that I had feelings for you beyond the realm of friendship.

-JW

Do you?

-SH

Have feelings for me, that is?

-SH

Have you thought of us in a romantic relationship?

-SH

John?

-SH

John glanced down at this phone. He couldn't deny that he'd thought of what sex with Sherlock would be like. How could he not? The man was bloody gorgeous. All that soft, pale skin; shirt buttons opened, revealing that deliciously long neck of his. And his hands. Oh, God, Sherlock's hands. It' s as if they were given to the man just to drive John up the bloody wall. So long and elegant; skilled and careful during an experiment, while strong and steady when holding John's gun. John imagined what they would look like while stroking John's…no, it wasn't just about sex. If that were the case, John would have taken Sherlock to bed long ago. No, Sherlock meant more to John than that. He was John's closest friend, the most important person in his entire life. John would, and had, killed for Sherlock. He would die to save Sherlock, because a life without Sherlock really wouldn't be worth living. Sherlock's smile, his rare honest smile, filled John with affection; his silky baritone sparked John's desire; and his eyes… to have Sherlock's green quicksilver eyes fully focused on him was a heady feeling, leaving John feeling like Sherlock was the only one in the world.

John felt as if he was coming out of a daze. _Oh. _That explained a lot. John Watson, soldier and doctor, was in love with one Sherlock Holmes.

John hurriedly typed out a reply. Now that he finally understood what this feeling was, he certainly wasn't going to waste anymore time analyzing it. It was time for action.

Yes. I have and I do.

-JW

Have feelings for you, that is.

-JW

As do I. So it's settled then?

-SH

Hm, yes, it would seem so.

-JW

Good… Sex?

-SH

Oh god, yes!

-JW

o0o

It was late by the time Sherlock retuned to 221 B Baker Street. The night's air was frigid, the first snowflakes had started to descend by the time Sherlock opened the door. A white Christmas; John would like that, although Christmas day would be over in an hour or so. Sherlock certainly wasn't sentimental went it came to the holidays, but he had to admit that he was disappointed that he had to be away from John. Next year Sherlock would refuse to let John out of his sight. He would force John to come to the Holmes Christmas dinner. At least Sherlock wouldn't be bored, and John would be able to fend off the more annoying among his relatives. Or, better yet, they would just stay home and spend the holidays together, just the two of them. That way Sherlock won't have to deal with Mycroft's irksome knowing little smile, like he had to endure all through tonight.

Sherlock bounded up the stairs, anticipation causing adrenaline to take over his body. John. He was going to see John again. Be with John (in the most carnal way possible). His John.

For the second time in his life, John Watson had left Sherlock Holmes shockingly speechless. Standing in the entrance to the flat, Sherlock stood frozen, mouth agape. John had fallen asleep on the couch, presumably waiting up for Sherlock. The streetlights outside shown through the window and cast dim shadows on John's face. He looked breathtaking; mouth slightly ajar, breathing softly, hair slightly ruffled from the cushions. Altogether he looked entirely at peace. Sherlock could do nothing but stand and watch John; his flatmate, colleague, friend, and soon-to-be lover.

The lights on the tree emitted off a faint glow, giving the room a whimsical quality. Amid the strands of caffeine, nicotine and nitric acid, a new molecular structure had been made. _John, obviously. It is the molecular structure of…_ a little stunned, Sherlock blinked, _dopamine. It's the chemical dopamine; the _love _chemical. Oh, clever. My clever John. _

Suddenly, a realization dawned over him. John was his, and he was John's. He didn't have to just watch John anymore; he could have him; touch him, kiss him, become a part of him. He didn't have to wait or hold back any longer.

Sherlock strode over to the couch and dropped down to his knees. Gently cupping John's face, Sherlock whispered, "John? John, wake up."

John's eyes started to flutter. His arms came up to wrap around Sherlock's neck. Suddenly, his lips were on Sherlock's. The kiss started off chaste, as John was still not fully awake, but it certainly didn't stay that way for long. John's arms tightened their hold around Sherlock, and Sherlock brought his hands to rest possessively on John's hips. With a mess of lips parting, tongues and teeth, their need for one another became overwhelming. Sherlock draped himself over John so that the whole of their bodies were touching. The kiss deepened, both passionately devouring each other's mouths.

John pulled back slightly, needing to get control of his heart rate (at the pace it was thumping, it was a wonder that he wasn't going into cardiac arrest) and to calm his irregular breathing. "Christ, Sherlock!"

Sherlock merely hummed, continuing to place kisses along the side of John's jaw down to his neck, pausing only to lift John's shirt over his head. Leaving a trail of kisses and love bites down John's chest, Sherlock finally stopped his onslaught on John's body when he reached the belt buckle. Looking up, Sherlock tilted his head and simply asked, "John?"

John knew exactly what Sherlock was asking; he was asking him if he was okay with moving along so quickly. If he could guarantee that this will work out. If this meant as much to him as it did to Sherlock. John threw his head back and moaned. _Yes, yes, of course I want this, you daft git. No I can't guarantee this will work, but I will love you all the same. You mean the world to me._

Sherlock understood.

Quickly ridding John of the rest of his infernal clothing, Sherlock showed no hesitation in taking John's cock in his mouth. And oh sweet Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock was good at this. His cupid-bow lips looked positively obscene wrapped around John's cock; his tongue left stripes of liquid heat in its wake.

"Oh, oh my god, Sher- Sherlock," John moaned as his hand came to rest on his unbelievably mad lover's midnight-black locks. Just when John started to feel his control waver, he gently tugged on Sherlock's head, bringing him up for a kiss.

Sherlock melted into the proffered lips. "John, please, I want, I - I need…"

"Yes, Sherlock, anything. Just tell me what you want"

"You. I want you, to, to fuck me. John, please, I need you to fuck me."

John licked his lips hungrily, "Oh God, Sherlock, yes!" And just like that Sherlock was up on his feet, albeit not entirely his steady graceful self, tugging at John to get up.

"My bedroom, now. Go! I won't be but a minute."

"Sherlock, I am not waiting. If you are going to check on a bloody experiment, I swear-"

Sherlock chuckled, cutting the smaller man off with a searing kiss.

"I'll be right there. Now go!"

Once John was in the doorway to the bedroom, Sherlock bounded up to John's room, taking the stairs two at a time. He knew that John had exactly what they would need (however, Sherlock's bed was much larger). Grabbing what he needed, and tearing his clothes off as he went, Sherlock ran back downstairs.

Only to stop cold when an idea came rushing in - the mantel.

John was growing impatient enough to get up and look for Sherlock when said lean, pale, and very naked figured appeared in the room. It was, hands down, the best Christmas present John had ever received: a naked Sherlock Holmes with a box of condoms in one hand and a bottle of lube in the other. The perfect image, well, except…except for the bright red and white Santa hat atop Sherlock's head.

"Oh, this is some sort of revenge isn't it? A personal vendetta against me?" John laughed.

Sherlock flashed a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame.

"I told you it looks ridiculous."

"Yes, well, it probably doesn't help that it's the _only_ thing you're wearing. Now take it off!"

"No, no. I rather like it on."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, either take that off right now or I will."

Another impossibly wide grin. "I'd like to see you try," Sherlock said teasingly

With that, John sprung into action, successfully flung the red and white fuzzy lump off, and pinned Sherlock beneath him on the bed. Kissing him with the same adrenaline-fueled intensity that controlled every other aspect of their lives, John was able to distract Sherlock while he took the bottle of lube, slicked a few fingers, and positioned them in place. John continued to prepare his new lover until Sherlock's body lost its rigidity and tried to match John's thrusts. Sherlock whined in protest when John removed his fingers, feeling off kilter with nothing to ground him, until John had a condom on and had his fingers digging into Sherlock's hipbones.

It was indescribable, the feeling of John actually__inside him. Every inch of Sherlock's skin seemed to contract with want and need and pleasure; and when John had started to thrust in earnest, he moaned, "Oh, John. John, John, I- oh…"

Sherlock started to see stars; his vision flashing to white as his orgasm took hold. Thrusting harder, John followed Sherlock, both moaning each other's names.

o0o

Sherlock Holmes is not a man who is easily surprised. He has spent his formative teenage years and the entirety of his adult life solving puzzles and finding connections. He has solved murders and tackled kidnappings. He has faced neurotic thugs and criminal masterminds alike. And yet; and yet, here he is, long limbs wrapping around his lover – his John – head nuzzling the spot were John's neck meets his shoulder. And as rare an occurrence as it is, for now Sherlock is completely dumbfounded, awestruck, flabbergasted, and so very puzzled at how he came to be so lucky.


End file.
